Once There Was
by holyshitsouthpark
Summary: Once there was a boy standing in his bedroom, except it was no ordinary bedroom, and it just so happens that it was no ordinary boy either. A (very) short story.


A short story

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><p>Once there was a boy standing in his bedroom, except, it was no ordinary bedroom. Instead of furniture, there were clouds, and in place of the walls, there were vast and colorful galaxies. The floor was the sky and the ceiling was air. The boy stood in his bedroom, as content as could be. His attire was similar to that of a windsock; long, blue, and flowing. A sudden gust of wind swept past the boy, knocking him off his feet. He stuck out his hands for balance and remained stable in the air, the hood of his shirt whirled around gracefully behind him.<p>

The boy was floating in his bedroom, seesawing up and down ever so gradually. He twirled around to look at the stars where his walls should have been. Scanning the many suns and planets in the distance, he made a note to himself, "many visible celestial clusters today." The blue-clad boy swirled around effortlessly to investigate the rest of his room. He looked at his bed, "there are clouds forming in the atmosphere here," he looked off to his wardrobe, "and there." Another gust of wind passed by, which the boy had been expecting this time around.

Bracing himself, the boy's hood whipped behind him once more. The wind was strong and it howled as it lashed by. As the boy remained stationary, the opaque clouds that were his furniture whirled about and eventually left the premises of the room. Not again, the boy sighed internally. After the wind had passed, he landed and stared off to space where his former bed was headed.

He ran a hand through his messy windblown black hair, contemplating whether he should go after the clouds himself or just summon a new set of pearly white puffs. Before he could decide he felt a sharp pang on the back of his neck.

"Ow!" he swirled around just to be hit in the forehead with a small rock. The windy boy brought both hands to his forehead and grimaced in the sharp pain he had just endured. After spotting the intruding rock that was floating nearby, the boy picked it up and held the small object in his hand.

He held it up close to his face, investigating as he rolled the rough pebble between his forefinger and thumb. It was coarse on all edges, the color was a reddish brown, it seemed burnt. A few more of these objects flew past, one which nearly pierced through the boy's forearm. A sudden gasp in realization escaped from him and he dropped the object. It spun out of his hand and floated away. The boy's face was strewn into perplexity as he watched the distance grow between him and the rock. He hurriedly looked towards the origin of the rocks, and as he did, his jaw dropped. There it was.

A hoard of asteroids was hurtling towards the boy's bedroom. They glowed red against the black surrounding darkness. The boy could already feel the heat being radiated off of them. Some were large, some were smaller, then some were like spikes.

Small slivers of the rocks flew past the boy, some of which pierced and ripped through his clothing.

He couldn't move, all the poor boy could do was face the danger head-on.

More and more spikes and slivers and pebbles shredded through the air, and through his clothes, and through his skin. The blueness of his clothes was slowly turning purple not only from his own blood, but from the luminescence of the asteroids.

Second after second they came closer… and closer… and closer. The boy's eyes were wide, but solemn. Heat was getting stronger, the rocks in his vision were getting brighter. A million and one thoughts were running through his mind, and yet not one was comprehendible.

The boy was smart. He knew a lot about space and time, planets and stars. But now, his knowledge of phase space or particle kinematics meant nothing. The definition of trajectory from the webster dictionary that he had memorized such a long time ago, "the path, progression, or line of development resembling a physical trajectoryctionary," was not going to help him in this case. And so, all he did was stop and stare.

By now his hood had been torn to shreds, his arms were surely cut up, and his pants were presumably alike his hood. But he couldn't feel it; the pain went away after his sight was fixated straight ahead.

Tiny beads of sweat had formed on the boy's forehead and bridge of his nose. His entire body gleamed red, the objects up front only now proving to be larger than first expected. The heat was sweltering, waves from it were visible before the boy. These were temperatures unlike anything the boy had endured before.

Despite his body being stiff as stone, the boy clenched his fists and took a stance. His former look of perplexity and concernment had faded to dismal and grief. In the face of sorrow, the boy looked empty, yet strong. A single tear crept slowly down his face, it glistened red.

There once was a boy standing in his bedroom, except, there wasn't a room, and soon- there wouldn't be a boy either.


End file.
